So I've read both so far. I think it is a great insight to what makes Darkholme tick and how his presence affects those who were dear to Wagner. I love how you portrayed Deadpool. It seems you really have a grasp on Kurt's situation and the backstory is very intriguing. Keep them coming and I will surely keep reading

Disclaimer: The characters are the property of Marvel. This is a work of fiction set in the main universe (616) approximately a month from now. The date and time elapse mentioned are my own speculation, as they've not been stated in the MU.

Featured in the story are Nightcrawler (Kurt Darkholme) and Wolverine(Logan) as they begin to define a friendship that meant the world to one, and never existed to the other. It can be read as a one-shot, but is intended as an introductory chapter to a story that delves into who Kurt Darkholme is as opposed to Kurt Wagner.

A kaleidoscope is a circle of mirrors containing loose, colored objects such as beads or pebbles and bits of glass. As the viewer looks into one end, the light entering the other end creates a colorful pattern, due to the reflection off the mirrors. Depending on both lighting and how the kaliedoscope is moved, the pattern can change dramatically.

Some mild language is in the story.

Prologue: The Desert in May

TWOKK

The dagger hit just to the left of the intended target...yet again. Scheisse.

I need to compensate more for the wind this high up, he thought. Let's try again. Kurt ambled towards the wooden board roughly cut into the shape of a man. His distinctive rolling gait, necessitated by his unusal feet, slowed as he paused briefly to look out over the late afternoon desert. Tail swishing lazily in the heat laden air, he pondered the landscape, as always looking for changes and mentally marking defensive positions for when the need arose. Logan's assurances aside regarding the isolation and safety of this location, Kurt still felt like the proverbial sitting duck out here in such a barren, open environment.

He supposed, if he were inclined towards caring about such things any longer, the panoramic scene before him would be considered "pretty". The sky was pale blue and cloudless with a clarity not seen in his own world for more years than he cared to remember. Fading sunlight lit the desert floor and surrounding mesas in stunning tones of red and orange - something that might look hellish but for the signs of tenacious life dotting the landscape. Patches of sagebrush here, a lone cactus there - it broke the monotony of red in the shimmering heat. A small cloud of dust marked the zig-zagging path of a desert hare, and Kurt's pointed ears picked up the high screech of a bird of prey overhead just before he saw it dive with folded wings after its would-be dinner.

He took a deep breath of the dry air and held it briefly in his lungs before exhaling. That much, anyway, he liked of this world; he could breathe without the stench of death and decay coating the back of his throat. He could certainly do without this heat though. Deep indigo coloured fur made daytime excursions a fair misery. If it was this hot in May, he shuddered to think what it would be over the summer months.

Kurt reached out and yanked the knife from the plywood, sweat trickling from under his arms, down his sides. The white, sleeveless undershirt he wore in lieu of anything heavier, was long soaked. He irritably wiped the sweat from his eyes.

" Ach, diese schreckliche Hitze..."

He also wasn't best pleased with the dust that puffed up at every step he took, coating his bare feet and lower legs exposed by the short pants he was wearing. He thought it made him look like an unkempt rug.

Returning to his original position, he noted the wind direction and modified his throw slightly. He curled his lip back in an unconcious half snarl, and narrowing his eyes, imagined another face in place of the blank target dummy. This time, he had the satisfaction of a perfectly executed hit.

Gott, but he was bored.

The mesa where he'd chosen to hone his skills sat near X-Force's base. It was not the tallest in the area, but it provided the best unobstructed view for several miles. Better still, it offered him the chance to be away from the stifling presence of his temporary teammates. It did little, however, to ease the boredom or his increasing frustration at feeling cooped up. Kurt retrieved the dagger again, sighing grumpily before he disappeared in his trademark brimstone smelling cloud to reappear in the artifically cooled interior of Cavern X.

"Vhat a silly name for a base," he muttered to himself. He was amused that no one had decided to paint a large "X" on the topside of the cavern - they certainly decorated everything else in that fashion around here. Team spirit was one thing, but really, these people took it to extremes.

He listened for signs of the others as he went first into the kitchen for a cool drink, then on to his room to shower. In the hallway, he heard sounds of a television in the distance - Wade probably. That imbecile spent the majority of his "down time" parked in the team's living area in front of the TV, stuffing his misshapen face.

"Perhaps that is part of my problem", Kurt muttered. "It has been so long since I have had "down time" I no longer remember vhat to do vith myself."

His own world was certainly not one that encouraged relaxation. Every minute of recent years had been about survival it seemed. Fighting, planning, training, scraping the already stretched resources of a post apocalyptic world just to ensure another week of survival - his days there had been full to overflowing. It was difficult for him to adjust to the change here, he found. He wondered what it said about him, that he seemed do better with struggle and hardship over just living.

Kurt heard nothing else on his route, which was not entirely surprising. It was unlikely for Betsy to be present here; her recent personal problems and other obligations kept her away except when necessary. He preferred her absence. Even as familiar as he was in working with Jean back home, the presence of a stranger capable of seeing into his mind was not an altogether comfortable thought. Jean-Phillipe tended to stay on his own, wherever that was. Deathlok, also, was gone more often than not lately. The only wild card was Logan - this world's Weapon X.

"Nein, this vorld's volverine..."

It was difficult to separate in his mind at times, though this Logan had shown himself to be at least somewhat honourable in Otherworld - even if Kurt had had to shame him into action. Still, he still struggled to control the urge to lash out with a blade if the man caught him unawares. There really was no telling when and where he would show up. You would think he was the one who could hide in shadows...

More disturbing, however, was the apparent friendship the man had had with Kurt's dead dopplegänger. Not even when the man of the same name in his own world was with the X-Men did Kurt have anything more than a working relationship with him. Truth told, he'd found him egocentric and difficult to tolerate even at the best of times.

"The best he is at vhat he does indeed...", Kurt snorted.

This man who wore the same face of a mass murderer of epic proportions back home, and lead a team of assassins here, looked on Kurt - at least at times - with a kind of sad expectation, as if he were willing some aspect of his lost friend to suddenly appear. It was maddening, and it seemed the scenerio was repeated for every person Kurt met who had known Wagner. He was growing to resent it more each time it happened. He detested being seen only as who he was not, rather than who he was.

Well, there was one exception to that oft repeated scenerio. He certainly hadn't minded the lovely Meggan looking on him with those dewy calf eyes. Entzückend. Kurt smiled at the memory. Pity the woman was so attached to her thick-necked lout of a husband. How typical. He wondered just how much Wagner had...enjoyed...those feelings she'd mentioned from the past, then shook his head with a smirk. From what he'd heard about his dopplegänger, the man had probably been too "noble" for such a thing.

Having tossed his dusty, sweat drenched clothes in the corner, Kurt stepped into the shower. He held his head under the spray for a long time in an attempt to clear the headache that always seemed to start forming as soon as he was back in this verdammt base. He had to get out of here for awhile.

It wasn't that he hadn't explored the surrounding area - he had. His team leader had been thoughtful enough to procure a little device for Kurt that cast an illusion around his appearance. An "image inducer" was what Logan called it. To Kurt it was simply a useful toy that allowed him to remain...unobtrusive...in this world. It did, however, rankle that he had to use it. Thoughts of keeping his presence here a secret aside, in his own world, humans were the minority and mutants the dominant beings, not like here, where they seemed on the endangered species list. Ach well, he had no plans on being around that long and the device did allow for him to be in public without the nuisance of a probable altercation looming on the horizon. Said altercations tended to put a damper on his preferred recreational activities.

He'd even found a particular establishment that suited his tastes; though the beer was weak it was drinkable, and the perhaps dubious charms of the ladies who frequented it were tolerable given the strategic lighting. What more did a man need for the evening?

He toweled off and dressed, his mind on the planned nocturnal activities. He very nearly had made good his escape when there was a knock at the door.

"Of all the verflucht luck...", Kurt thought, as he opened the door and saw Logan.

The short, stocky man eyed him from under the brim of his hat, then offered an almost friendly smile.

Kurt looked at Logan, deliberately making his face devoid of expression. That particular unreadable look actually made him resemble his mother even more than usual, though he didn't realize it.

"Ja, I suppose I vas on my vay out." He gave himself some credit for at least trying to hide the irritation in his voice.

"Well if ya ain't particular, I know a good spot close by. Come on, I'm buyin'". Logan turned and started walking, apparently expecting Kurt to follow.

Feeling like he had little choice - the man was his host here after all - Kurt nodded once, less than enthusiastically, and closed his bedroom door behind him, following Logan to the makeshift garage of the complex. When Logan moved to get into a battered, yellow pick-up truck, rather than the more modern sedan, Kurt groaned inwardly. The thing was sure to be a smelly rattle trap that went at a snail's pace. This was getting better by the moment, he frowned. Perhaps staying at the base and listening to Wade argue with himself (and lose) would be preferable. But, mustering his resolve, he climbed into the truck and perched himself on the cracked vinyl seat.

The attempted small talk on the drive into town was predictably strained. By the time they arrived at a bar even more questionable looking than the one Kurt frequented, he was already trying to think of ways to cut the evening short. It didn't help that Logan seemed moodier than his usual less-than-cheerful self. Hardly the demeanour of a man wanting a night on the town, Kurt mused. He wondered, not for the first time since they'd left, just what this was about. Perhaps it was team business under the guise of socialisation. That must be it.

In the months he'd been in this world, Logan hadn't gone out of his way to seek Kurt's company since those first snarky assertions regarding who he was not. In fact, the man had pointedly seemed to try and avoid him, except when it was related to X-Force business. That had suited Kurt just fine. None of these people were his friends, they were simply temporary associates and a means to an end.

"Well, this is the place." Wolverine hooked a thumb in the direction of the building's front awning. "Ain't much on the outside, but they don't water the beer. C'mon, neither of us gettin' any younger."

Logan exited the truck, slamming the door with a resounding clang. Kurt sighed and fished the image inducer from his pocket. He used the tip of one pointed fingernail to adjust the settings to what he wanted, then followed the man into the bar. The stink of stale beer and the twang of Hank Williams on the jukebox assaulted him as he entered.

He followed X-Force's team leader to a booth in the corner, where a harried looking waitress was already arriving with a pitcher of beer and two glassses. She smiled familiarly at Logan and yelled over the din, "Holler when ya want more Hon."

Kurt curled into the bench seat opposite and tried to find a comfortable position. He much preferred barstools and the freedom of motion they offered for his tail.

Neither man said anything as they drank the first round, and "Vera", as the waitress's name tag declared in bold letters, brought the second, including a bottle of whiskey and two shooter glasses.

"What, no movie stars?", Logan finally queried over the rim of his glass, starting round three by then.

Kurt was jostled from his thoughts on how best to extricate himself from this miserable experience of attempted male-bonding.

"Hmm, vhat?"

"I said, no movie stars?" Logan looked at him with wry amusement.

"Yer image inducer. Ya just made yerself look like any average Joe. Ya could look like...hell, I don't know...some Hollywood hotshot or somethin'...give the broads here a thrill."

Kurt looked around at the available "broads" in question and quickly decided that he had no wish to give any of them a thrill. He took a swallow of beer and said as much. Chuckling, Logan shook his head, and drained another glass, followed closely by two consecutive shots of whiskey.

Gott but that man could drink! Kurt hoped that he, himself, wasn't intended to be the "designated driver". Logan had been right that the beer wasn't watered, and Kurt could feel the alcohol warming his blood.

"Yeah, ain't no real lookers in here. But hell, the Kurt I knew woulda been yakking up to 'em just the same, makin' 'em think they was lookers." By this time, the older man's voice had started to slur a bit. "I swear he coulda had any woman eatin' outta the palm o' his furry blue hand ... old and used up like these here, or some babe lookin' like she stepped outta a magazine." Logan chuckled again and took another duo of shots before washing it down with more beer. "Used ta get numbers thrown at 'im on napkins."

"And funny...hell he could make a rock laugh. Had me snortin' beer out o' my nose more'n half the time when we went out partyin' ", a drunken Logan continued along the same vein.

Kurt looked at Logan coldly, lip curled back in a mocking smile. The other man was oblivious in his intoxication to the contempt directed his way. This was another attempt at Logan recapturing his dead friend. Kurt should have known. He debated on just teleporting out on the spot, leaving his team leader to wallow in drunken remembrance. Kurt watched him narrowly, tapping his thick nails on the grungy table before heaving a disgusted sigh and pouring himself more lager. Fine. Let him ramble on. It was just one night. At least now he knew not to fall for this particular ruse. And perhaps, Kurt thought, he would learn something about this dead "twin" that might be beneficial in the future. He grinned, thinking of Wagner's reputation...potentially useful indeed. Logan smiled back, apparently believing Kurt's grin had to do with what he'd been saying. That was amusing, as he'd stopped listening some time ago...somewhere between the time his counterpart had bolted the bedroom furniture of someone called "Scott" to the ceiling as an elaborate joke (poorly received) and the more recent "war of pranks" in Europe. (He wondered if Petey was the same morose lump he'd briefly seen on the communications monitor at the base during an observed conversation.)

So the night proceeded at a drunken tortoise pace, and Kurt learned more about his counterpart than he'd ever expected (or wanted) to know. He politely interjected the occassional "Nicht wahr?" at appropriate intervals and mentally filed away what he was hearing. After enough alcohol was consumed, he even found some of the stories entertaining. Others he found downright appalling. The man had once studied to be a priest? And he had been a circus performer? Scheisse! Had he no self-respect? How could two genetically identical men be so different...?

One thing was certain, Kurt was coming to at least see the reason behind Wagner's popularity and the devotion of his friends. The man had made himself endearing - albeit clownishly at times. And he was either the next best thing to a saint, or he had been so consumed with the need to be liked that he'd woven an amazing facade of the "understanding best friend" around himself, ensuring those closest would only see the best of him. Kurt tended to believe the latter. He also found himself quite glad that he had no such compulsion.

Finally, the bar closed for the night. They were the last patrons to leave, and the evening was over at last. Kurt half dragged a massively drunken Logan to the truck and dumped him unceremoniously in the rusted truckbed for the drive home. Feeling none too sober himself, though he'd long since chosen to voluntarily dilute his own drinks, Kurt took the drive very slowly, letting the cool night air wash over his face from the open window. He could hear the discordant (and frankly disturbing) sound of Logan singing, "I've Got a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts", from the rear of the truck.

Arriving without major mishap - the rather large cactus stuck to the front grill didn't count, he surmised, as it had caused no structural damage to the vehicle - Kurt killed the ignition and got out, peering at the now snoring man in back who wore the face of a hated mass murderer. Sighing, he hefted the dead weight (Mein Gott he was heavy!) teleporting his passenger inside to the couch, and lay him down. He then, with relief, took himself to the welcome darkness and quiet of his own bedroom.

Logan awoke in the blackest hours of pre-dawn, a foul taste of stale beer in his mouth and his eyes still blurry from this latest binge. He ran his hand roughly back through shaggy hair, and grunting, got up to retreat to his room with thoughts no less dark than they'd been earlier today.

"Damn stupid flamin' idea, draggin' Darkholme along. Bet he had a helluva time. As if he didn't already bitch enough about bein' here an' all o' us, now I dump a loada horseshit drunk ramblin' off on 'im," Logan thought. He wished he could remember what all had been said. "Nothin' for it now I s'pose."

Still, he knew why he'd sought the other man out. Today, Logan had just wanted - needed - to see his friend's face; hear his voice. Even if it wasn't the real deal.

He closed the door to his room, switching on the lamp that sat on a small table on the far side. He dug around in his pocket for a lighter and lit the stick of sweet smelling incense in an ornate Japanese burner. The subdued lamp-light shone on a series of small framed photos lined up neatly on a silk cloth. Mariko. Jean. Kurt. He picked up the last picture and looked at it for a long while before replacing it on the table. Anniverseries. He was good at anniverseries. Today made two years ago that his best friend had died. And no amount of looking for him in someone else's face was going to change that.

Logan switched off the lamp and laid across the bed, staring at the ceiling, lost in memories.

Disclaimer: The characters are the property of Marvel with the exception of the Bauers and Bianca. This is a work of fiction set in the main universe (616) approximately a month or so from now.

Chapter 2: Frayed Seeming

Now this was enjoyable; Kurt grinned, brandishing his swords.

The man who used the code name "Nightcrawler" launched himself with lightning speed towards his attackers -- three well armoured, well armed assassin units. Teleporting midway through his leap, he reappeared perched on the shoulders of his first target. Kurt ducked and maneuvered himself out of the line of laser fire that erupted from the opposite side of the room, then narrowly avoided the bladed metal arm of his neighbor as it whizzed past his ear. Swinging his foot in a devastating kick to the face of the assassin next to him, he managed to cause it to lose balance, and gave himself the few seconds he needed to finish off his temporary roost and move on to the next.

He vaguely heard the clang of a now headless robot hit the floor as he materialized on the shoulders of the third villain, tossing the sizzling head of his former "friend" to the floor. Disabling this new fellow's weapon with a flashing strike of his sword, he chose to dispose of him with a bit more style. He used a downward strike of steel whilst similtaneously hurling his remaining sword with deadly accuracy towards the now recovering final 'bot, impaling it in a shower of sparks. All of this occurred in under two minutes.

Kurt grinned and rolled his shoulders, going to retrieve his sword from the still smoking robot. Without looking up to the observation window, he gave the hand signal to increase the difficulty level and prepared himself for some real fun after this little warm up.

Wolverine and Kitty Pryde observed the danger room exercise from an overhead booth with varying degrees of interest. Logan watched with the attention of a leader, whilst Kitty watched with a flat expression, wishing she hadn't had to come here, to Cavern X, to have a private "pow wow" with the school's headmaster. The less she saw of this savage imitation of her dead friend, the better.

Though the new generation of danger rooms did not require the safety precaution of a second person to control the program settings any longer, Logan still found it useful to observe his team members as individuals, as well as in a group, on occasion. It helped him pin down strong points, and points that could mean a weakness of performance for the team. In their line of work, weakness could mean death.

He found it a challenge to try and keep X-Force in any kind of cohesive team structure. Because of the nature of what they did, the team was comprised of members who tended to have baggage, and lots of it. All of them were accustomed to a certain amount of solo work, some more than others. He figured he and Wade were the biggest Mavericks in the outfit, but none of them were innocent of the mindset. It made working together, and trust, an especially big issue...not like the X-Men he'd first joined so many years ago. X-Force wasn't family; they felt more like partners in crime most of the time. Logan shook his head to dismiss that thought. That way of looking at things sure as hell wouldn't do anybody any good. X-Force was necessary, as much as any of the other teams, maybe more. They just had a different way of going about things.

He watched Kurt Darkholme with an analytical eye. Some of the moves -- many in fact -- he knew from the thirteen years he'd fought alongside Kurt Wagner. Same basic execution and speed, same preferences for order of attack on multiple opponents, same drive for perfection. Yet there were some notable differences. Logan's friend had been a performer at his core, and anything he did had more than a smattering of the dramatic added in for effect.

Logan smiled to himself. He'd tried to bust Kurt's chops once about that showmanship thing....told him, "Fancy footwork's fine for a show Elf, not combat," to which his friend had replied, "How I do my job Wolverine, is my business, so long as that job is properly done. If I choose to do it with style, a little panache, a lot of fun, where's the harm?" *

Watching the man in a danger room session sometimes had felt akin to watching a choreographed movie scene.

Kurt had also preferred to stun or temporarily incapacitate his opponents; he never fought to kill. Not like the man Logan watched now.

Darkholme had a lot of the same flare; no doubt about it, he was as much of a show-off in his own way as Logan's old friend. The main difference was the deadly earnest with which his moves were executed. No movement was wasted. No quarter given. Everything he did was utterly controlled and calculated for the deadliest effect. He made a highly effective killer.

He also appeared remorseless, or rather simply without reaction to it. Numb to it maybe, Logan thought. Darkholme -- at least from what Logan had seen -- generally didn't give up much emotion over anything, that is, aside from pissin' an' moanin' an' shootin' off that smart ass mouth....he did all that well enough.

Even when the man had convinced him -- against Logan's better judgment -- to help the citizens of Otherworld, Kurt'd had a self-righteous poker face about the whole thing. For all his pretty speech, he might've been talking about the weather, though Logan had had little doubt at the time that Darkholme would've helped them regardless of what the rest of X-Force was ordered to do. That alone made him believe that this man and his lost friend were cut from the same cloth somewhere deep down.

He heard Darkholme give a gleeful cackle as he decapitated another opponent in the danger room and muttered to himself, "Way deep down."

Kitty took Logan's continued silence to mean he was in a mood and let him be for the moment. She wasn't the most patient person, but Logan's moods were well known. Talking to him when he was like this was a study in futility. She debated on postponing their discussion, but decided against it; she'd traveled all the way out here to this god forsaken base - he could damn well talk to her. Surely when this session was over, she could grab his attention for a short while.

Logan's moods had been growing worse of late. She suspected it was due to the major increase in responsibilities her friend had taken on. The man really was burning the candle at both ends. Kitty sighed and shifted restlessly, turning her attention back to that cold-blooded echo down below of someone she'd once known and loved as well as a brother. Her gut wrenched, as it did every time she looked at Kurt Darkholme.

If she squinted her eyes, she could almost believe it was the "real" Kurt she was seeing, back from the dead; but then that just made it worse. Instead, she decided to try and pick out as many differences as possible -- something, anything, to keep him from seeming so much like a twisted caricature.

He was thinner, that was distinctive. Her Kurt had had the healthy, robust, musculature of someone who'd grown up on a trapeze; this man was sinewy and whip thin. Whether it had been caused by deprivation or hardship, Kitty didn't know, and truthfully didn't much care.

Darkholme's blue-furred skin stretched taunt over the bones of his face as well; it made the hollows of his cheeks, along with his nose and chin, even more prominent than they'd been on her friend. To her eye, the harsh, angular contours of that face made him look even more demonic than he might otherwise. Of course she was a bit biased against him she supposed. Kitty shook her head. She'd not seen Kurt Wagner as "demonic" in so many years now. However, she could still remember how afraid she'd been of him because of his appearance when she'd first joined the X-Men...and how hard he'd worked to alleviate her fears. She sighed and an image came to her mind of Kurt's smile. Those glowing yellow eyes that she'd found so frightful at first now looked like twin candle flames in her memory, twinkling with amusement, warm with affection. Kitty swallowed the lump forming in her throat and tried to turn her thoughts to other things -- like why she'd come here to start with.

"Logan, I know you're busy, but really....about the thing with Rogue...", she started, stepping closer to him. He looked over to her at the same time the computer signaled the conclusion of the current danger room session. Kitty ground her molars in frustration as smoke and the acrid stink of brimstone signaled Darkholme's arrival into the observation room.

His slightly arched brows were the only indication that he was surprised to find a non-member of X-Force in the base watching him train. Kurt cast his baleful yellow gaze on her and inclined his head in a greeting, "Katherine, I believe it vas..?"

Her name came out sounding like "Kazerine". Kitty nodded a greeting, and mentally noted that another difference was the accent; this man's was more pronounced. Having no wish to talk to him, she remained silent and willed him to go away.

Ach, it was the Fräulein with the hard eyes. Kurt hated the way she was looking at him; as if he were something she'd found stuck to the bottom of her shoe. Of course, he silently admitted, he might deserve a certain amount of coldness from her, given their initial meeting.

That first day he'd arrived, she rushed to embrace him, believing he was a dead man returned. Kurt disliked spontaneous displays of affection from people he knew, let alone from strangers (unless of course they were buxom and long-legged and....nevermind).
He'd reacted to her emotional greeting by shoving her roughly away and pointing out -- well shouting out, if he was honest -- that he was not her friend.

Turning away from her, he looked with dry amusement at Logan, "So, after this little game, is there something you believe I need to vork on, Herr Leiter? Perhaps mein Purzelbaum?"

The shorter man looked at him with a hard eye. "Don't know what the hell a 'poozelbawm' is, but if it means attitude, then yeah, ya need ta work on it. This ain't meant ta be playtime Kurt. Ya know what we go up against. Ya know what's happened lately with the team." Logan leaned his arms on the console.

Kurt tilted his head, replying, "I assure you I am avare of vhat ve do, mein Freund. Ve kill people." He smiled thinly. "You have my apologies for enjoying myself vith this computerized sport. I vill try and avoid it in the future, ja?" Glancing between the two of them, he added, "If that is all...?." He indicated Kitty, still obviously waiting on the other man's attention. Sighing, Logan waved him away. "Yeah, yeah."

"Then guten Abend to you both", Kurt said with a small, sarcastic bow. With that he left, disappearing with a "bamf".

Kitty looked at Logan and folded her arms, "You know what kind of a creepy asshole that guy is right?"

"Yer preachin' ta tha choir darlin'." He made a noise and shook his head. "Darkholme's alright where it counts -- he gets tha job done. Anyhow, what was it on yer mind again?"

After changing out of the hideous uniform he'd been given -- these people really had no taste in clothing whatsoever -- Kurt teleported into the kitchen to see if he could find something appetizing to turn into a meal, preferably a quiet one.

"Yo, angry Elf, just the guy I needed to talk to!" Wade declared from behind an impressive pile of processed snack food. He dropped his treasures onto the kitchen table, most of them remaining there (verses the floor), and flopped down in a chair.

"I have told you not to call me that. I find that particular appellation offensive....Idiot," Kurt returned.

"Nah, you said don't call you Elf; I didn't, I called you Angry Elf. See the difference? It's all in the emphasis. How can the name "Elf" make you feel all girly-like if it has "angry" in the front? Personally, I think you look more like a goblin though." He crunched thoughtfully on something covered in orange powder.

Kurt enunciated his words carefully and spoke slowly, "Elf is not my name."

"Oooh, Arnold Schwarzenegger in slow-mo.....hey can you do that 'I'll be back' line? He smiled hopefully, then waved his hand. "Nevermind, it just wouldn't be right coming from a blue fuzzball." Wade ripped into another pack of cheese doodles.

Clenching his jaw in irritation, Kurt contemplated teleporting the moron's head off again, but knew from grim experience that it wouldn't work to shut him up. Instead, he turned his attention back to the freezer and continued to look for supper. Lasagna? No, he hated Italian. Stroganoff? Ugh, it looked like dog food in the photo on the box. Ach, who did the shopping for this place? Whomever it was, their taste in food was similar to their taste in uniforms. If it wouldn't require spending even longer in this kitchen with his annoying team mate, he'd just cook something. He decided to opt for a sandwich -- not much could go wrong with that, and best of all, he could take it and leave quickly.

The fool was still blathering on, "So me and my best bud Logan were talkin' while we were kicking goat butt in Otherworld, and we decided that everybody on X-Force was screwed in the head, you know? I mean the boss man is a poster child for a half dozen or so psycho disorders....personally I think he's got narcissistic personality disorder, but mind you, I ain't a professional or anything."

"Nein, you're an imbecile," Kurt muttered, his back still to the kitchen table.

"Betsy is all kinds of co-dependent, I mean look at that shit with Warren and now with Le Pew. Bad news, that chick. And the French fry....don't even get me started on him. The guy has more than one brain and neither of 'em work right! Hey, back off those cocoa snaps, those are mine!"

Kurt tossed the cookies back into the cabinet with disgust and prepared to take his dinner and leave.

"Yeah, so that leaves you man. What is your major malfunction? What are you so pissed at everybody for?" Wade looked at him with interest.

Picking up the knife he'd used in making the sandwich, Kurt looked over to his kitchen companion with a deadly smile. He flipped the knife lightly, replying, "Vhy, I am pissed vizh people not sharing their cocoa snaps, of course." With a deft flick of the wrist, he pinned a bag of Wade's potato curls to the table, half an inch from the man's hand.

As Kurt exited in his characteristic cloud, he heard Deadpool mutter in hurt tones, "Dude if you got the munchies that bad, take 'em."

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He reappeared in his sanctum sanctorum, or at least the closest he had to one in this world.

"Malfunction? Mein malfunction? Gott, vhat an idiot," Kurt snarled under his breath. "Vhy am I so angry he asks, vell he has not lived my life - vatching those I love die, vatching a vorld die. Do this und see just how full of joy he is! Dummkopf!"

Placing dinner, such as it was, on his desk, he switched on the lamp and moved to look for music to calm his irritation and at least give his humble abode some atmosphere. Bach or Liszt? Hmmm, how about a compilation? Finding the disc he wanted, he loaded the player. There, that would do. The soothing strains of Goldberg Variations filled the room as he sat down to eat and switched on his computer.

Finishing his sandwich, he checked the various programs he'd installed to collect data regarding violent or disruptive mutant activity - villainous mutants frequently made the news worldwide - and finding little of interest, sat back to just enjoy the music. The CD had moved on to Liebestraum, and he closed his eyes, remembering where he'd first heard the melody.

It had been as a very young child in Germany. One of his earliest memories in fact. Uta Bauer was her name. She was the combination housekeeper, nanny and cook that his mother had employed since -- well the old woman and her husband, Dieter, had been around all of his life, as far as he knew. She would play on an ancient, out of tune piano in the sitting room. His mother was still present fairly often back then and Victor was no longer in their life (thankfully). The evenings when Uta played the piano - or perhaps Dieter would come inside to sit by the fire and play his violin - were bright, pleasant lights in his memory. He'd sit curled on his mother's lap, wrapped up in the beautiful music and her arms. She always seemed in a good mood when the music played; that was probably why he'd loved it so. She'd had an unpredictable streak even in those days, but with that gentle accompaniment, she was just his mother.

He had always treasured her being there, but at the same time dreaded the next time she would leave him. He'd been too young, then, to understand just the sort of work his mother did, or the difficulty she must have faced in safe-guarding a son that looked like him. It could not have been easy.

They'd lived in an old rambling farm house, tucked away in the Bavarian countryside. It was freezing in the winter and wretchedly hot in the summer; it had peeling plaster and warped frames, but it had been home. It was the only one he'd known until he was nearly grown.

The property was isolated; the nearest village had been several miles away. There was a high, crumbling stone wall that surrounded the house garden, and a small servant's apartment over the kitchen. That was where Uta and Dieter had lived, though during his mother's absences, Uta had stayed in the main house with him. He wondered, not for the first time, where his mother had found a couple willing to care for a "demon" child so loyally.

He hadn't realized during his youth just how different he was. How could he have? He looked like his mother more or less; surely that was how it was suppose to be. He never saw other children, and the only adults he saw were the Bauers; they had certainly never indicated that he was unusual in any way. Now Victor, he was a different story. Victor had referred to him as a devil and other, more unflattering names that he hadn't understood, but his mother had said Victor was an idiot, and Kurt had agreed at the time.

So why had the Bauers been so willing, and how did his mother know she could trust them with her hidden child? A former lover of his mother's, Bianca, had once told him she thought it was because Raven had information on Herr Bauer from the war that he didn't want the authorities to have. Perhaps that was why she could trust them; she was skilled at using blackmail after all. However, Kurt preferred to believe that they might have cared for him, at least a little.

The music switched to Tchaikovsky's Serenade Melancolique, and his memory switched with it, to a bright attic playroom, almost a decade later. Uta and Dieter had been gone for several years by then; dead of old age. He'd been through two other "nannies" and was working on the third - and as it turned out, the last - after unsuccessfully trying to convince his mother he was well enough on his own.

It was a hot day in mid-summer. The sun had painted the faded wooden floor with a golden hue, making it almost seem cheery. He could still feel the rough rafter beam underneath him as he'd lain propped on one elbow, looking down below. Tchaikovsky played on the antique gramophone they'd found amidst the mountain of junk in the attic; the tinny sound had echoed beautifully there....and he'd watched, mesmerized, the klein Tänzerin, twirling in a sunbeam.

Kurt stood and turned off the music. He removed the disc and broke it in half absentmindedly, throwing the pieces into the waste bin. Perhaps he was not yet ready to retire for the evening. He'd go check the more extensive news feed in the complex's main communications room.
__________________________________________________________________________

German Translations

Herr Leiter - "Mr. Leader" (putting "Herr" before a man's name or title denotes respect)

Purzelbaum - "somersault"

guten Abend - "good evening"

Dummkopf - "fool" (literally "stupid head")

klein Tänzerin - "little dancer"

* The conversation referenced took place way back in Classic X-Men #4, "The Big Dare".

Bamfing_Bob wrote:So I've read both so far. I think it is a great insight to what makes Darkholme tick and how his presence affects those who were dear to Wagner. I love how you portrayed Deadpool. It seems you really have a grasp on Kurt's situation and the backstory is very intriguing. Keep them coming and I will surely keep reading

Considering how much I'd revised and added to them on the fanfiction site, it is probably better to just delete them. I'm sorry about that. After I caught what had happened the day after, I realized I couldn't edit my posts here.

I'm glad you were enjoying the story. Tell me what you think about the whole if you get time to finish it.